Eighteen

Whitney

Present day

Light streams in through the window, and I open my eyes to see the most incredible sunrise over the gorge. Nothing, not even remembering the reason I’m here, can detract from the beauty of this moment.

Because I’m looking for the good.

Maybe Magnus was right. Maybe I’ve been focusing on the clouds instead of the beauty of everything else.

But this morning, even after a night filled with dreams of Lincoln, things look brighter and more vivid. Even the clouds are stunning, washed in orange, pink, and red. It’s one of those moments that you can’t help but be glad you’re alive to see.

I wait for the sky to change colors before I pick up the phone on my nightstand. My majordomo answers immediately.

“Good morning, Ms. Gable. Can we bring you a latte or coffee before breakfast?”

“Coffee would be great.”

He goes on to ask me what I’d like for breakfast, and I decide to indulge with a strawberry crepe. He returns with the coffee within minutes.

It’s a different kind of luxury than I’m used to. At least, it feels different. Before, I was always part of the Ricky Rango entourage, where his needs came first and everyone else was an afterthought, especially me. I wasn’t part of the band, and no one was ever allowed to know what my true role was. Ricky went out of his way to give the impression that I was just along for the ride and contributed nothing.

For some reason, that always made me feel like I had to prove that I was earning my keep. I went above and beyond, busting my ass to make sure every part of his life went smoothly, so people knew I was pulling my weight.

As his popularity grew, things spiraled out of control. Ricky pushed me harder, always wanting more. Different. Bigger. Better. It was never enough. If a single didn’t hit number one, it was always my fault.

And I let him make me feel like that.

I let him walk all over me.

I let him bully me into keeping his secret.

Until the moment I found out he had gone back on his one promise to me and cheated.

Just like everyone else, Ricky Rango didn’t realize what he’d had until he lost it. I finally grew a backbone—and then he killed himself.

For months, I’ve struggled with the guilt.

Did standing up for myself really make him push that needle into his vein? Did he know what he was doing when he shot that fatal dose? Could I have stopped it?

I can’t put these questions out of my head. Maybe it makes me weak, but I think it makes me human.

I’m not responsible for Ricky’s actions.

The thought materializes in my head and I grasp it like a drowning woman being thrown a life ring. It grows stronger with every breath I take, and the more I allow myself to believe it . . . the more liberated I feel.